


A House Built on Stone

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Norse culture, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Warfare, Period-Typical Sexism, War lord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Updated January 5th.Deo volente = God Willing
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	A House Built on Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piperman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piperman/gifts), [imicike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imicike/gifts).



> Updated January 5th.
> 
> Deo volente = God Willing

The regular dull thud of the oars in the rowlocks proclaimed their coming, that and the swirl of disturbed water, the mist attendant upon such rivers as these shrouding them from view. Not that there was much life abroad, apart from wildfowl darting back into the reeds and an occasional heron fishing in the shallows, bent over the water like an aged old man, dagger drawn, on the hunt for fish or frog or freshwater mollusc.

The prow of the lead ship, the first of five, cut through the water as smoothly as a hot knife would through butter, the powerful ripples spreading outward to disturb the heron’s sport and the vegetation on either bank, before being swallowed by the great ship’s wash.

A warrior stood upright behind the wonderfully carved figurehead, one hand upon it, listening carefully to the soundings being softly called by the man at his feet, sending course adjustments to the man manning the tiller by means of hand signals.

This warrior was tall, unusually so, and broad with it, mighty of muscle too, though his tunic and the furs he wore draped over his shoulders hid them from view. It was something in the way he stood, the way he moved, that gave hint at controlled power. His hair was raven black and as enviably glossy as that bird’s wing, his skin pale and smooth, the nose noble, the lips full.

The river they were navigating lead to Paris, capital of the Frankish king since the death of Charlemagne, whose Empire had been divided and then sub divided. They were not, however, a raiding party, but were heading for the trading post at Rouen, there to begin claiming seisin over the land.

As a people long dispossessed, driven ever northwards by an Empire as great if not greater than Charlemagne’s, in recent times they had looked to settle in kinder climes rather than their adopted land of fire and ice. Principally, they had tried to take the land known as England and had damn near succeeded, but then had come Alfred, and after him his sons, and that one daughter who had driven them back into the sea.

This shot at a venture was of his making, the people with him declaring themselves his people and fully understanding what he intended. That his leadership had at some point been disputed was self-evident, for a fresh scar bisected his right eye and ran down under the collar of his tunic, nestled now under his furs.

They journeyed on, steadily, remorselessly, the pale disc that was the early autumn sun now visible through the mists, beginning to burn them off.

**Two Years Later**

It was not to be supposed that the Franks had welcomed their coming, for indeed they had not. No matter, they had given them good cause for resentment, turfing them out from before their hearths to provide their women and bairns with shelter and comfort until they could build their fort on the great hill overlooking the anchorage and a great hall to gather in.

It was good, what they had found here, the Christians being well blessed by their god. For once they left the churches untouched having brought gold and silver aplenty, though they helped themselves to everything else, including the most comely of the Frankish women.

These were not so hard to win over as might be supposed. Unlike christian men they bathed regularly and wore clean clothes and combed out their hair and beards - and were condemned for it by the Christian priests who saw their cleanliness as a lure to ensnare weak willed women. Their expectations of these fair captives were simple, tend the hearth, work in the field, and bring forth lusty sons and daughters.

The house of the Frankish king was weak, not being that well established and not bringing forth warrior kings, the blood of Charlemagne being by now too much diluted. It was one of the reasons he had chosen the land of the Franks to establish his house. Of course eventually the king must come forth and challenge him or be thought a coward and weaken himself further, but with axe and sword he had been repelled and more land gained.

It was for these reasons the king sent envoys to parley, it was then that he first heard of the girl.

He himself spoke some of the Frankish language, and English, and had given instructions that the children must be tutored in the Frankish tongue for he intended their residency here to be permanent. To this they added Norse words, to eventually speak in a tongue named after them. This was future time, however, for they had not yet come to be known by that name.

The king sent a priest, and here at least he acted in wisdom for the Norse knew of the English priests and trusted them, having been on many occasions their overlords, particularly in the north of that land; Alfred expelling them from Wessex only, and the woman, later, from Mercia.

Lor San Tekka was the priest’s name and he was most persuasive. Having lived amongst the Norse he knew of their customs, knew how to blend them into Christian observances such as baptising their babes in water, but in a font before an altar not in a spring or a river or a lake.

He converted in the end not because he believed but because it was the right thing to do for his people. Clearly the Christian god blessed his worshippers more bountifully than the old gods did theirs. Of course, it would take a few generations for the old ways to die, that is if they ever did, or rather were absorbed into this new way of life.

Because he had converted, being baptised, every one of his people did too.

The priest told him then that Christians did not kill Christians, therefore the Frankish king wished to make peace - conditional on a marriage. It was then that they brought her to him, the girl.

At first sight of her he wanted to strip off every ounce of gold from his person and lay it at her feet as a bride price, to renounce her dowry and take her as she stood, dressed only in her shift if he must. However, the Frankish king clearly had a set against her, his niece she was, or so he said, and he hardened his heart and told the matchmakers to bargain hard.

The Frankish king gave him all the land they currently held, extended it from the River Epte to the sea, and northwards to the county of Ponthieu. He added the county of La Perche, and Brittany which he had not been able to subdue. In return Kylo Ren would cease from raising his hand against him and extending his borders.

It was all agreed, as he anticipated he wouldn’t have time for such a paltry thing as war as he had his young filly to break in to his weight, to make her belly big and round so that she brought forth sons without number. They shook on the deal, clasping each other’s forearms, and Plutt leaned in to give the kiss of peace. It was revolting, the man’s grossness not concealed by the cloying perfumes he had anointed himself with.

He would have taken her then, married her before the altar of the church and got straight down to work, but here was Plutt with one more demand - that Kylo Ren kiss his foot now that he, Plutt, was his overlord.

Ren stood rigid, his left hand clutching the hilt of his sword. Plutt made the request again, putting out his foot and urging him to put his lips to it in reverence. Instead, Ren nodded to Hux, who stepped forward most gleefully, bending slightly to take not the foot but the whole leg, upending Plutt, the erstwhile king crashing to the ground.

He was looking at the girl as Plutt toppled over, his bulk practically leaving an indentation in the dirt. She had stood throughout, eyes cast down, features frozen in an expression of mute rebellion. As Plutt was felled, she raised her eyes and met those of her betrothed, a wide smile breaking out over her once sullen face, her lips parting and the most wonderful sound of her laughter breaking forth.

She stepped up to him then and he inclined his head to take stock of her, drinking in the sight of her golden skin, her green eyes with their amber depths, and, most charmingly, her freckles.

She spoke, “My name is Aurélie, but you may call me Rey, husband.” She then pressed her body against his and went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, her lips soft, her scent intoxicating. Suddenly he lost his nerve, shy and unsure of himself, though she would not be his first.

She rested back on her heels and took his hand, his automatically closing around hers. Her hand was tiny in his, and cold. He vowed then and there to keep her warm all her days.

As if in a dream, he led her away and mounted her before him on his saddle and, at her urging, gave orders that every scrap belonging her be handed over and then rode with her to church, both having been shriven and there being no other impediment, leaving Plutt sweating with worry and panting with pain.

Before the open doors of the church he married her, in the sight of all his people, his Frankish princess, sliding a beautifully wrought gold ring on her finger. Then he kissed her and discovered another task to occupy his waking hours, to taste of those lips hourly.

At the wedding feast he drank too deeply, his nerves getting the better of him. They half dragged half carried him to her, pushing him through the leather curtained doorway so that he staggered over the threshold, swaying like a newborn calf.

His alcohol befogged brain took in the sight of her, her robe parted to show a long, sheer shift which barely concealed the slender, tight body underneath it. Her skin glowed in the light of wax candles, rendering her more golden, her brunette hair too glowing with red and golden highlights.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he slurred, “ready to do a husband’s work,” before taking a wobbly step forward and tripping over his own feet. He raised himself onto his hands and knees and heard, over his own grunting and cursing, that bell-like voice uttering a taut, “I doubt if you have the wind for what I desire of you, you drunken sot.”

He never knew what she hit him with, but darkness followed seamlessly on her words. He never sought to find out either, for the looks she gave him for days after would’ve curdled cream. He’d had to endure the sniggering of both men and women, too, for although she’d called on his body squires to tend him, word had soon got around that he’d been bested by a mere girl.

He seethed for a couple of days, for she wouldn’t let him near her, and took out his aching libido on all those he caught in a sly smirk or chuckle at his expense. Finally, one day he felt a presence at his elbow and there stood a little maid, she introduced herself as Rose.

“What you need to do is apologise,” she scolded him, hands on hips, “and give her a gift. Of course, if you’re not truly contrite, stay away from her else she’ll cut your throat in the night.” She finished off her homily with a glance at Hux from under lowered eyelashes, her lips curving in a shy inviting smile, the very picture of demure womanhood. Then she sashayed away, flicking her braids over her shoulders where they hung long and glossy down her back.

Hux had come to stand directly beside him, staring at those retreating, alluringly swaying hips and then at the place where Rose was last seen, seemingly transfixed. Ren huffed, stalking off to find something to kill and sweeten his mood, uttering curses against all wives and the unfortunate husband’s who must put up with them.

During the course of this venting of spleen he bethought himself of the gift he would have given in recompense for her maidenhead, a sweet tempered mare. Well, he had his wife’s measure now and strode off to purchase instead a spirited chestnut gelding, knowing himself to be robbed by the family who sold it to him. He added to this saddle and bridle, the browband of the bridle bearing silver ornamentation, knowing he’d paid over the odds.

Still, the higher the price the greater the prestige in the eyes of his bride, or so he hoped, and he was glad to see his people had not forgotten how to be greedy, he was relying on that for future enterprises he had planned. For his pact was with Plutt, who had foolishly not extended it to his heirs and successors or had it sealed in blood.

His sour look disappeared and he began to whistle tunelessly causing those around him to shift nervously; for when Kylo Ren seemed at his most benign he was potentially at his most dangerous, plotting mischief at another’s expense.

The chestnut gelding did the trick. He had one of his body squires run up and down with it showing its paces, the lady clapping her hands and turning a face glowing with happiness at him. Her smile was radiant and he almost felt his knees buckle under him, so overcome with love for her as he was.

He then _may_ have hinted without directly saying it that he too was inexperienced as a bedmate, hence drinking too much because of first night nerves. Her face then softened and she took his hand, whispering softly, “Fear not, husband, we’ll learn together.”

Seeing the success of this strategy, he _may_ have elaborated on the lie and whined that he never wished to disappoint her. “No, husband, never could that be,” she declared most earnestly, and pressed herself against him offering up her lips to be kissed and putting one of his hands to her breast to fondle.

Never one to let a good thing go, he swept her up in his arms and strode for their quarters, proof of her refining presence, in days past he would have slung her over his shoulder and made off with her. A great cheer went up causing her to blushingly bury her face trustingly against his chest. He was triumphant, though a little voice at the back of his mind piously hoped she never caught him in his lie.

He must prepare her for bed himself, acting as her maid. The fact that it was daylight, with many extraneous sounds beyond the leather curtain, landed an illicit flavour to their imminent coupling. He hoped he wasn’t too eager with her.

She stood before him, naked at last, and he could only draw in his breath through his teeth at the sight of her. He himself was naked from the waist up and she was currently engaged in exploring the expanse of his chest, clearly liking what she saw.

She pressed herself against him, breasts soft against his musculature.

“Husband,” she whispered, eyes wide with anxious sincerity, “I’ve heard it’s painful, the first time. If you feel me hurting you, do not hesitate to stop, I would not have you injured or fear paying the marriage due.”

He looked down at her, eyes searching out whether she was in earnest or making a plea for gentleness in her own behalf. No, she spoke truth. His jaw began to work and there flooded through him such feelings that he would be hard put name to. Certainly, no other woman had ever elicited them in him.

His lips met hers and everything that followed was done with tenderness and care. It sparked a lifetime’s devoted love; yes, and obsession.

**Some Time Forward**

The parable Lor San Tekka had just read out had resonance. Yes, he was listening to sermons now, his wife being devout and it being best to show willing for he yet had need of the Christian god’s blessing.

San Tekka had related a tale of two houses. One built on a foundation of sand the other on stone. A great storm had come and swept away the house built on sand, the house built on stone endured.

The essence of this parable was one that taxed him daily: how to build a legacy in this spear won land which would endure.

They had all been declared outlaws, all those who had joined him under his banner. He and Hux were declared full outlaws, no period of exile for they two. No, they lived under a certain sentence of death - unless they could establish themselves in this land and become a new sort of people.

The key to it all was his wife. Only through her love and patronage could their claiming of seisin over the land granted to them - and that yet to be won by ax and sword - become permanent and a worthwhile legacy to pass on to their children and grandchildren. _Deo volente_ , even for evermore.

That he had not been challenged to a duel yet by those who served other lords was solely due to the importance of Rouen as a trading post for the Norse raiders, and the services offered in the careening of their ships before they sailed home to winter harbour.

That they knew who he was and of his fame, attested to by the many gold arm rings he wore taken from the bodies of the men he had killed, was a certainty. He did not hide his past though he now wore the gold cross of the christian around his neck.

That he had once had his former lord’s love was also evident by the three decorative gold bands bound around the hilt of his sword. Indeed, he was a walking invitation to seek glory by killing him, as was Hux who was similarly adorned although without the banding about the hilt of his sword. For Kylo Ren had been first in all things, until he had rebelled against tyranny - against his lord, against Snoke.

The now faint scar bisecting his right eye had been Snoke’s parting gift to him for his treason.

At one time he had been sensitive about this marring of his looks, never over-confident in them to begin with, but no longer. His little wife liked to croon over it, stroking with delicate fingers and anointing it with feather light kisses, _’to make it better’_.

He had reared away at first from her touch, almost unbearably self-conscious, but she had made soothing sounds in her throat as though gentling a restive horse, cupping his face between her hands and gently kissing him, telling him that this scar was no different from any of the other marks of his past history which his body bore.

He was inked on his shoulders and across his back and chest with sinuous patterns which had no beginning and no end, though his wife would spend an hour together poring over them, a tiny finger tracing over the blue lines seeking to find the fault line. Fantastical depictions of brother wolf were there too, and a mighty serpent which might be mistook for a dragon.

Runes also adorned him, telling of his deeds in battle and naming his mother and maternal grandfather, but not his father. No, no, there was no glory to be had there. These she touched right reverently, once he translated their meaning. It was one of his most precious memories of her, sustaining him in dark moments and through moments of self doubt.

He loved her with a jealous, possessive love.

That she reciprocated was soon evident.


End file.
